


Dreamer of Day

by jenni3penny



Category: Lie to Me (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-15 04:46:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5771842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenni3penny/pseuds/jenni3penny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five dreams. Callian. "The educated and detached Cal Lightman knew that dreaming of shaggin' his therapist was his brain's way of just... piecing things, parsing them so that they'd be more understandable."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "All men dream, but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds, wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act on their dreams with open eyes, to make them possible." T.E. Lawrence

He'd never admit, to her nor anyone else, that the first time he really remembers dreaming of her... it'd been... well, sexual. Yeah, a'ight, so, sexual. As in... _deeply_ sexual. As in, pretty explicit – but not indecently lewd. Nothing of her would ever really lead him to lewd (unless she wanted it that way, of course) but, instead, somehow...

Hell, he'd dreamed her curled up in his lap (gloriously naked) and her head back and that long and dark hair (straighter than Zo's, silkier than) had rivered down between her shoulder blades.

What he remembers most of the dream now is tangling his fingers up in her hair and jerking her head back, roughly. Laying a claim on her throat and tasting a surprised whimper under his tongue while she wiggled down harder into his lap.

Well, that and the fact he'd startled himself awake, flat on his back and painfully hard, immensely jarred by the smell of _his wife_ next to him.

He'd laid there utterly still, locking his muscles and bones into motionless. He'd purposefully punished his body for being an ungrateful and mutinous son of a bitch.

Then he'd tried to remind himself, while wondering where in the bloody hell _that_ had come from, that Zoe Landau was... _fuck_ , she was the reason he was still sane, still lucid and happy (he _was_ happy). She was the reason. _The_ reason, _the_ all. The every-little-bitty-thing.

And, hell, his Emily. Zoe'd given him more than everything, yeah? She'd given him a life and a reason and even in the face of all their battles – he felt her closeness, her loving.

He had all he needed, had reminded himself of that as he'd finally forced his hand to move, the knuckles of his left hand stretching back and laying flat into the warmth of his wife's cotton clothed spine.

Comin' right down to it – he knew that dreams were just the subconscious mind linking bits of the days together, the detached brain sorting out questions and concerns and just generally having a loudly silent fuckin' laugh at the rest of the consciousness. He _knew_ that dreams often meant nothing, they were just ragged ether, in and out, mucked about. The educated and detached Cal Lightman knew that dreaming of shaggin' his therapist was his brain's way of just... piecing things, parsing them so that they'd be more understandable. Not that he quite understood what made him think of Foster in the first place... but his subconscious had obviously snagged onto her, though.

Cal himself – the _not_ educated and detached, the _not_ emotionally blank version - was having a bit of a meltdown about it, though. Rather, really, a small part of his consciousness was havin' a meltdown, worryin' at it. The rest of him was embarrassingly delighted to be reminded of her, of Gillian.

And that's when it'd clicked, actually.

The blocks had fallen all together and into place and it'd felt suddenly, while he'd been rubbing the backs of his knuckles against Zoe's lower back, like his brain was an excellent and winning Tetris board.

Gillian Foster, the woman herself, was just an answer of sorts, a resolution to the quandary his brain had been tackling for more than a miserable month. And regardless of what it was that'd made him think of her in the first place, it was his brain that had supplied the answer for him.

His brain, by bein' an explicit little shit, had implied she was a companion, a safety... _a partner_.

So, yeah... despite reason (logic and clear common sense, neither of which he'd ever much had stock of), he'd called Foster's office at the Pentagon the next day. So many months since he'd last seen her and sorta inappropriately pleased to hear affection and humor in her voice. He'd offered to buy her lunch and told himself, repeatedly, it was just about business. It was merely about the right fit when it came to finding a partner he could actually, legitimately, work with. Someone who could stand him and withstand him as well. She was someone who could outlast his issues, nerves, and neuroses, near every one of them. She'd done so already, right? Proven that, she had.

She was someone he wouldn't mind havin' around, day after day, always in his business and sorting secrets with, sussing lies. Who wouldn't take excuses, wouldn't give them either.

Someone who'd already heard them all before, actually... Someone he could trust.

Someone he knew would innocently never, _never_ , let that particular dream come true.


	2. Chapter Two

The second time (that he distinctly remembers) was on a mid-night plane between the District and Minneapolis, merely a month before his own divorce papers had cleared.

And he remembers the waking more than the dream because it was her hand rising backwards to tip his chin up as she murmured encouragement over him.

“Cal.” Her whispering was what had woken him, really. Because she'd said his name so gently and warm in the dream and he realized before opening his eyes that it had found its way from reality to his unconscious. “You're dreaming.”

“Sorry, love.” He's not sure he'd much blushed at her before, at least not just because she'd tried to get his attention. Near felt like he had, though. There'd been a fussed heat on him as she'd watched over him.

“It's okay.” She'd murmured at him, tipped her head to study his features. “You okay?”

“Yeah, m'good.”

She hadn't believed a word of it – and good on her. “Sounded like a bad dream.”

It'd been a dream of her leaving the firm, the partnership, leavin' him.

It'd been a bitch of a nightmare, actually. And likely fueled by the bickering they'd shared over payroll just before boarding their flight.

He'd merely shrugged at her, blocking up her concern. “Don't remember much.”

She'd known he was lyin' and let him know that too, one of her brows lifting in disbelief as her knuckles had rasped down his jacket lapel, her hand dropping back into her lap.

And he'd gotten a good and focused glance on her wedding ring, vacantly stared at it glinting in her overhead reading light. Her other hand fidgeted over the book she'd been reading before she'd lifted it again.

At least the way she had curled one half of the pages backwards had, once again, hidden that ring from sight.

So he'd mutedly leaned his head back into place on her shoulder, letting his glance drift sightless over the page she was on, “What're you reading?”

“Rushdie again.” Gill had whispered back, turning her mouth nearer his forehead.

Cal'd just sighed off, wedging deeper into her side. “Not far in, are ya?”

“Just started.” There had been humor in the way she'd said it, as though she'd known what was coming, as though she was already prepared to start over again.

“Y'mind?” he'd asked softly, fingers motioning toward the book.

She'd just breathed a puffed little laugh through her nose and started back at the beginning, flipping the pages rapidly back to the start. “I'm not waking you up again. If you fall behind it's your - ”

“Fair's fair, love.”


	3. Chapter Three

Third time round was more like the four hundredth but, Christ, he'd given up count on it by then. So he really just scored his favorites, dug them deep into memory as he woke with eyes squeezed shut and his fingernails piercing into his palms. The pain went a long way to making the memory stick. Physical pain then became inextricably linked, in a roundabout and strangely cerebral way, to thinkin' of her, to dreaming of her, to wondering about her. Which, actually, gave him a sense of comfort, centered his thoughts and insulated him.

So, sick and impractical cycle complete, eh?

Pain equaled Gillian, which, in turn, equaled pleasure. Balance, eh?

Take _that_ , Doctor Flirty and Feisty Foster. Healthy(ish) resolutions to unhealthy issues.

But anyhow, third time that he really remembers – the third dream that really sank into the depth of his lungs and burrowed a home there? She was asleep herself when he woke from it, her frame curled up in a ball in the edge of the opposite hotel room bed, tucked under generic covers and obviously cold.

And, frankly... fuckin' _adorable_.

Her hair'd found a messy way to tip over the pillow and edge of the bed, half spilled like a frozen up waterfall. She'd snugged in so deep, cuddled down in the ugly comforter so far that all else he saw was the pout of her lips, half parted, and her nose. And he'd watched her for a few moments, calculating how sensible it'd be to cross the No Man's Land dividing the two beds. Two feet, just barely, the distance between their single (both deplorably uncomfortable) hotel beds. His arm was that long, at least. The beds were close enough that he hadn't even realized the temptation before he'd touched at her chilled cheek and rubbed along her jaw.

“You cold, darling?”

“Mmmmph.” Like a child, ducking her head into his hand so that his fingers had become entrapped by her jaw, her head keeping his arm stretched across cool space.

She'd been subtly gorgeous that night, all tousled and flustered and annoyed. Perturbation had a certain cute quality on Gillian when she wasn't necessarily aiming it directly at him. When it was just general annoyance it was innocently, sweetly, damn adorable. Couldn't explain why- it'd always seemed less sour than when Zoe'd been frustrated.

Fury had always been sexy on Zoe (was equally as attractive on Gill, actually, when he thought on it).

But casual annoyance, on his Foster... it seemed sorta bemusedly sweet. Beautiful, in its own way.

“You're all chilled.” He'd muttered, tugging against the tips of her hair. “C'mere.”

“M'okay, Cal.” She had defended softly, tucking down tighter into the blanket. “You don't have to - ”

“Warmer near the heater vent.”

She'd picked her head up far enough to look over top his stretched body, a longing glance aimed at the vents that ran parallel to the bottom windowsills. He'd almost laughed, had near chuckled out his breath at how yearning she'd seemed as she'd stared through the darkness. Talk about subtly sexy... the look on her face just in that swift glance had been something he'd been aching for himself, wished it'd been aimed at him and not the heating element.

That'd teach her about demanding the bed nearer the loo, though.

She'd pitched a little fit on that soon as they'd walked in the door.

“Is it even on? I'm freezing.” Petulance shouldn't be so cute as it had been on a chilly and snuggly Gillian Foster.

“Gonna start blastin' in another few minutes.” Cal had drawn the comforter on his other side, aimed a nod toward the opposite side of the bed while he held back a grin. “Get over here before it sounds off.”

“Shoulda listened to you.” She'd been muttering it absently while standing, curling her own comforter up around her shoulders and lookin' like an especially attractive giant marshmallow (with bedhead) as she'd moved around the end of his mattress and flopped down beside him. “No 'I told you so'?”

“Wasn't sayin' a word, love.” He'd laughed and rolled onto his opposite side, dragging the blanket up and wedging under it before she'd had a chance to balk at the movement. “Not when y'look so miserable.”

He had flicked the corner of his own blanket over hers, layered her under the warm weight of both before snaking his hand up her spine, feeling her back lean into it rather than away. The simple movement had been more than enough invitation for him to slip his palm down her ribs, sloping his fingers onto her hip as her entire body had taken a quick shift backward and closer to his. He knows he laughed then, snorted humor near her hair as she'd hunkered down and glared at the heater, waiting for it to kick on.

“ _God_ , you're warm.” That whisper had, undoubtedly, been meant to sound more like appreciation and less like a moaning. She'd made a whimper of it anyhow, one that had struck a whole new heat into his chest as he'd palmed her cool hip. “That's so unfair.”

“Hot blooded.”

She had just laughed at the gusto with which he'd nuzzled the innuendo near her shoulder.

He'd made the moment match the dream that he'd woken from – that was his secret.

Maybe in a different setting but, hell, he'd found a way.

Just to lay beside her, his palm curved on her and heavy weighted to her hip, his fingertips a match to the jut of her pelvis.

“Cal?”

His fingers had flexed, as though waiting for her to tell him to back off. “What, darling?”

“Alberta is _cold_.” The muttering near grumpy but she'd sighed when the heater started whirring and then blasting like a rocket near taking off. “We're officially never coming back here. Ever.”

The only argument he'd had (especially when she'd so deftly made it a two-some decision, a declaration that included the both of them as a pair), well, the only argument he'd had was that it'd be harder to re-create the moment in someplace like sunny Florida.


	4. Chapter Four

Busted. Completely busted.

Just by the shocked but bemused way she'd looked at him.

There had been an utterly surprised brightness to her eyes as her foot had come down from nudging at his side and he'd just barely met its prettiness before blushing away from it.

“That sounded like an especially good dream,” she'd murmured, tone hushed but eyes all widely lit with mirth and something that said she knew far too much about how hard the blood was throbbing through startled extremities.

He had to admit that it didn't really matter what the reasoning was – that particularly naughty and flirty look on Gillian Foster's face had always (oh yeah, in a way, _always_ ) made his chest crack open with heat and pride and exhilaration.

The problem then, the over-riding issue... well, he'd been dreaming of her again, hadn't he?

And more explicitly than she could probably, at that point, have imagined.

Even if her laughing eyes had said she knew more than enough.

“Why you still here?” he'd gruffed at her, half wedging farther toward the back of the couch to avoid her seeing the fact he'd been especially enjoying the dreaming and it was _especially_ physically obvious. His arm had crossed up over his chest, right shoulder blocking at her as he'd snugged his head farther back in the pillow. “Time is it?”

“Like an especially...” she had continued on, purposefully ignoring his grouchiness just to better tease at him, “pornographic dream. Dirty dreams, Cal?”

He'd turned his head at her and her expression had said, without words, ' _reeeeally_?'.

His had probably matched it flawlessly, if he thought on it.

“And so what if it was?” Mugging at her had become habit, something that happened moments and milliseconds before his brain could ever catch up to what he was doing. He'd given her a look of feigned annoyance, seemingly grumpy but mostly a hush of a tease. “Wouldn't you like to know?”

“I do know. I was here.”

“S'cuse me?” Cal had let his face react, refused the urge to school his features, pride leading him to look at her directly. “Were you in my head?”

“Apparently. You said my name.”

More than busted.

She'd nailed his balls directly to the wall.

And she'd done it without hesitation – but with a wicked smile.

“Bollocks,” he'd squinted in reply.

The predatory part of his brain had ditched him – instantaneous prey.

And he'd started reaching for any way to back-track, any possible way to keep her from remembering the fact that -

“Cal, you said _my_ name.”

Well... he didn't actually doubt that he had. Wouldn't have been the first time, certainly wasn't gonna be the last either.

And Gillian Foster's hearing was utterly fucking flawless, most especially when it needed to be.

“Need your hearin' checked, darling. Seems your ego's swellin' up your head.”

A look had come over her features that said she had him trapped up – and he'd had no real escape. Not when she was lookin' at him like she'd seen half of what was in his head and had actually enjoyed the mental image. Because her eyes were lidded and gorgeous and her tongue slicked her lips just before she nodded.

“That good, huh?”

Oh... _fuck yeah_. And all the glorious rest.

She'd managed to toe the sharp tip of her impractical (but delicious) high heel right into his ribs around the time he'd been fantasizing her hand wrapping completely around the length of him and teasing a slow up and down pull of tightening fingers. Left hand. Long and delicate and gorgeous fingers ghosting over already feverish-hot skin. The ring he'd playfully slipped onto her finger once before - the one he'd declined returning and kept in the safe without her knowing. Left hand, ring on her finger, her hand doing delightfully dirty things to him while she'd whispered naughtiness along his temple.

He thinks, realizes later, she'd probably been trying to wake him awhile and kicking him had been a final resort in the face of his sleepy stubbornness.

Her voice on his name had just seeped in and somehow added color and heat and else to the dream.

“You're blushing.”

He'd given her a pointed glaring and it had done nothing at all to stall her amusement nor interest. Takin' after him too much, she was. “Again, why you still here?”

“You were dreaming about me.” She'd made the response as though it was an explanation for her continued presence, as though he'd somehow entrapped her in his office just by thought and ache and dreaming her close.

Well, it wasn't a reason, really. But he'd accept any implication that caught her up closer rather than farther away from him. Any reasoning at all that led to her perfume, the smell of her shampoo, the light trace of her creamy coffee – any excuse for all three to have clouded throughout his office. At least, he usually would have accepted any little explanation. Until she'd smirked so haughtily and one brow had come up as though he'd been caught having a wank while sniffing her at her knickers.

That's when he had actually _felt_ the blush stray hot across his skin.

It'd suddenly gotten extraordinarily warm in his office that smelled entirely of her.

“Which doesn't actually require your presence.” He'd chucked off to the side, unable to keep sight of the ridiculously smug way she was eyeing him. “Seems my subconscious doesn't need the fodder, love.”

“They're normal, you know?” Dry and arch tone, practical tone, studious maybe. “Sex dreams.”

Surely it'd been meant to politely reduce the awkwardness of the situation, knowing Gillian. All it had really done was make him wonder how often she dreamed naughty things about him, if ever. So, no help at all. Not a bit. In fact, made the whole mess worse. Because his groin damn near danced elation at the very idea of Gillian Foster having one or two kinky dreams at his expense.

“Y'should go home.”

A noise of negation had risen up her throat and came off sounding more like a comforting rather than disagreement. “You should tell me your dream.”

Her countering had come quickly but his understanding of the words had taken a few moments to settle in. Like he'd lost the mastery of the language, actually. Like he was an absolute idiot.

“Really?” He had laughed at the time, all nervous energy and surprise. At least until he'd craned his head around and caught sight of the perfectly serious and singularly intense way she'd been looking at him. “Gill, _really_?”

Then she'd given him the smile he prized the most in his memory (and, yeah, the varied gradations of her smiles _were_ something he marked and measured in his general recollection). The one that was patient adoration and sensual lust at once – the smile that had been in most every one of his dreams about her since the first. The one he didn't remember having often seen so in real life before, the one that had him rolling onto his stomach and wincing as he shoved a sizable erection into couch cushions just so he could watch her eyes flit over the length of him and back up to meet his glance.

She'd shrugged then, just lifted one shoulder and beamed a smirk the wattage of which was immeasurable. “Why not?”

“Because it's bloody awkward?”

Her eyes had thinned, showing she disagreed instantly. “Maybe it's sexy.”

And he had wanted so much to agree with her assessment – but it was _still_ awkward as hell. “That I dream of you?”

“That you seem to enjoy it so much.” Her entire body had leaned farther into the arm of his chair, drawing her nearer as she'd hushed her words to a whisper. “That's sexy.”

“Must still be dreamin', love.” He'd gamely chanced a glance down the front of her shirt, maybe testing her resolve and maybe just taking advantage of a fleeting moment that she rarely gave so freely between the two of them. Either way she snorted a breathy noise and lifted her jaw into his perusal as he sighed at the sight of her throat, her breasts.

There she was, Jesus, _that_ woman.

That woman he saw often enough that he knew she lived just below the surface of a soft and saintly veneer.

Intimate Foster, silly and sweet and delightfully patient Foster. Saucy _and_ minxy Foster. _Aye, aye_.

He remembers being both terrified and elated at once – a bit like stage fright, really.

But he hadn't the lung capacity to be shocked still and yet also meet the demands of his suddenly frantic heartbeat.

“The Foster I know should be blushin' right now,” he'd accused quietly, watching her face as she had stretched a hand out and touched the corner of his mouth.

She'd been distracted, at once seeming detached from the moment and the architectural master of it. It had seemed as though she had entirely removed herself, the both of them, from everything. All the nagging bits and pieces that caught jagged up between them. She'd just pulled those things away, blinked those beautiful eyes at him and then reached out her hand. Her fingers stayed soft and light and dizzying the hell out of him as she'd continued a hushed exploration, a certain devoted quality to the way she had touched him.

Terrified, in lust, in love, and, for once... speechless.

She'd absolutely stumped him – because she was the only one who ever had the ability to do so.

“Maybe you are still dreaming.” Her fingers had traced up his cheek and on his forehead like it was no different than handing him his coffee or hushing him in annoyance. “But I don't think so.”

He hadn't gulped. Except, _fuckin' hell_ , yeah, he had. “Was a good dream.”

She'd grinned suddenly and wide, still idly distracting her fingertips along one of his eyebrows. “I could tell.”

Yeah, yeah. She'd had a good laugh at him, sure. But she'd still been sweet, somehow. Still seemed... undeniably happy. “Y'don't mind? Not offended?”

“Kinda flattered, actually.” Her response had been made of laugh and a brush of self consciousness, breathier than expected. “Relieved. I'd be offended if you _didn't_ dream about me sometimes.”

“Rather it was the other way 'round.” Cal had muttered in answer, groused it down toward the arm of the couch as he'd wedged his arm between it and his chin.

“Who says it isn't?”

“Been dreamin' of me, Foster?” He'd lifted her a look that had felt just as cautious as his voice had sounded to his own ears, even his own brain (and pride) surprised by how unsure he'd sounded. 

It wasn't entirely true that he couldn't read her, not actually.

It was sometimes true that he didn't trust his own instincts in regards to her – because he wanted (needed, adored, loved) her so badly that he couldn't imagine she'd possibly ever reciprocate.

But this time... this time he'd seen the honesty in the color of her eyes, and the way her cheekbones had pinkened up. “Sometimes, yes.”

And the flush had found its way down her throat as well.

And he'd watched it happen, delighted by how warmly it'd traveled.

“That good, eh?” he'd needled at her, unable to keep from grinning while he'd dug his chin deeper into the muscle of his forearm.

“You usually are.” Gill had smiled and tapped lightly against his forearm, the touch seeming tentative until she'd let her palm stretch, until he'd rubbed stubble against her knuckles in a calculated movement that pinned her hand under his chin. “Or so you tell me.”

“Should test that theory.” The suggestion had been his mouth getting in his way again but she'd seemed to expect it, she'd known it was coming and her enduring smirk proved that much. “Bein' scientists and all.”

“Maybe we should.”

Terrified. Terrified but extremely aroused.

And still, somehow _still_ , distinctly comforted by just the scent of her.


	5. Chapter Five

Thing is, it's her dreaming and fitfully tugging closer to him in sleep that's had him considering how often the roles had been reversed. How often he's enjoyed her (and _enjoyed_ her) in his sleep and how often he's still clinging to (the memory of) her as he wakes. He's been up near an hour, listening, feeling her twist and shift while obviously dreaming. It's her just bein' _her_ that has him so focused on the fact that he'd dreamed this particular moment up in his mind before – and often. It's her beside him, it's _her_ as she sleeps. It's the unconscious tightness of her fingers as she clings to his shirt and moans so close to his ear that the sound seems like it could easily echo out into a much larger space.

It's the very fact that upon meeting her, despite the surprise of inexplicably trusting her, he never would have considered this a possible end scenario. But now it's such a promising possibility – now it's become a tangible reality and shutting his eyes to it seems akin to cutting his own lifeline. Now it seems like they should have, somehow, known that this is how their worlds would come together, at a slant but merged and pieced together. As though they should have known (when they'd met, when she'd flawlessly been able to lie to him and hide worlds behind the prettiest blue eyes he'd ever fuckin' seen) that this was inevitable. She makes another meek noise in her sleep as he's thinking, another sound that comes up her throat but gets buried under his ear as she jerks close. Her whole body strikes rigid against him and he lifts a hand to the back of her head, rubs into mussed hair and feels his throat clench up on him when she whimpers.

“Shhh, it's okay, darling,” he hums the words out quietly as he applies pressure against the back of her skull, drives it down the back of her tensed neck to intentionally draw her toward waking. “C'mon then, wake up.”

She's often too damn adorable for her own good (for him to want to be good) when she's waking in his arms, slightly disoriented and fazed at first. When he's been able to wake before her and watch the evolution of her bright eyes and the realization of where she is, who she's tucked in beside. And he likes that, he does. Because she lets herself fall so sated and comfortable when she's curled up along his side, when her hand travels unconsciously from his ribs up to his throat and there are mornings when she doesn't even realize what she's doing but she's fidgeting her fingers on his stubble while she sleeps. So often she sleeps beside him like that's where she belongs and it serves to both elate him and terrify him all at once.

Cuz, time t'face it again, eh?

He _shouldn't_ let her anywhere near him and his horrible tendency to go about every-soddin'-thing in exactly the wrong way. Whoops, there he goes with the mucking up again...

But he simply _can't_ let her go anywhere else now that she's found her way cuddled up against his ribs and clinging to a shirt that's starting to smell more like her hair and leftover sleep than his own cologne.

That's why this apparent nightmare has him waking her, though. Because it's reminding him that more often than not, he's gonna be the bearer of her bad dreams – he's the master and maker of her nightmares whether he likes it or not, right? Because at this point, it's usually her worry for him (for him and them and the Group) that has her stressed or scared. So his hand intentionally lifts her jaw as he curls nearer and shifts his hips, banks them more chest-to-chest as her eyes widen open, lips parted as she sucks in a surprised breath and whimpers again.

Startin' to hate that sound, hate that she's making it in a place that should be safe for her. “Bad dream?”

“Don't go.” She doesn't ask it of him so much as demand it, her fingers vicing up the fabric of his shirt and wrinkling it tighter so that she can lever him closer and embarrassingly nudge her head down near his collarbone. She relaxes slightly after making the movement and he can feel it as her body leans more weight forward, her hips drifting full against his and her head burying closer along his throat.

Now, that's a little more like it. Because Gill's a cuddler. She likes snugging up as she wakes and he doesn't _at all_ argue with having her close for a few minutes before she breaks them apart and puts herself on schedule.

Usually right before she chucks bits of clothing at his head and tells him to get a move on.

“If I planned to leave I woulda put pants on, dontcha think?” Cal lets his hand fall from her hair so that he can stroke down her shoulder, squeezing lightly to affirm his words as he murmurs them over her quietly. “S'pretty cold out this time of year.”

She gives him a snort that's pure Foster as his hand continues wandering, utter and instinctual denial of his smartassery. “I mean in general.”

He smiles genuine surprise into how authoritative her hand is in wiping down the front of him and then back up, only this time she's stroking under the fabric and touching tensed skin. “Just can't live without me, eh Foster?”

She makes a childish little grunt against his throat, the chill on her fingers receding as she rubs against his stomach and fiddles teasing at the hem of his boxers. “Don't want to.”

He reflexively grins so hard in response to her pout that his face warms up in the night-time chill. This moment is fantastically impossible. He reminds himself, briefly, that this moment is exactly the sort of moment he'd meant to avoid – years ago, when their lives were so utterly fucking different. Hadn't that been her unspoken responsibility too, yeah? He'd chosen her because she was the safe and innocent and sweet and responsible one? Right, innocuous and upright (read as: uptight) psychologist, legitimate business partner, certainly _not_ a woman he could possibly _ever_ fall arse over tea-kettle for... so much for _that_. So much for her keeping them at a safe 'professional' distance.

So much for her being anything _but_ his...

Yet, here he is, leaning onto his back and rolling his eyes shut into how persistently she's sliding her still chilly fingertips under the fabric of his underwear.

“Looking for something to hold onto, love?” he asks as he cracks one eye and angles his jaw down to take a peek over her, filling his voice with teasing. “Promise m'not goin' anywhere. Don't need an emergency handle.”

She lifts her head at him with a look that is both perturbed and sleepily impatient. “You really think now is a moment wherein you should be a jackass?”

Except it isn't actually impatience in her eyes – not like he'd thought.

Sure, she's supposedly annoyed with his flippancy (sorta, in that annoyed-but-also-bemused way).

But the rest is... fear. And not impatience but maybe, maybe something like desperation.

It's not as though he hasn't seen desperate fear on her face before – and in regards to him.

But usually it involves bodily threat, harm, possible danger – also, again, usually in regards to him.

S'never just so abruptly, without warning, invaded a space that should be impenetrable to such things.

“Was a bad dream, wasn't it?” he asks, his voice hushing even softer as she intentionally ignores the question and keeps distractedly tracing over sensitized skin. “Gillian, look at me.”

“S'all right, darling.” He tries to make his voice an assurance as she complies but it just feels scratchily concerned as he whispers at her in the dark. He's no good at comforting her, not really. Not that he hasn't tried - and often – tried to be there when she needed him as a friend. But he's just always felt so ungainly and gormy in the face of how delicate she sometimes seems to him. “Was just a dream.”

“Making sure,” she counters and her face slopes a warm rub down his chest, chaste kisses against cotton just before she wipes a cool cheek against his clothed sternum and stills.

He isn't surprised that her fingers ripple down the front of his abdomen, trace through the sparse trail of hair and snake between his thighs – and especially not when she lifts her head to sleepily watch him at the same time. She cutely sets her chin against him as she slims her eyes, half smiling up at him. Her eyes have brightened up enough that he realizes she knows exactly what she's doing, that she's consciously aware of teasing the tips of her fingers and then nails against the inside of one thigh and making his muscles twitch. Cal slopes his right thigh back a little to give her hand space, watches her facial reaction as he thrusts up against her knuckles and it's possessive pleasure that darkens her eyes again – differently this time than earlier. Her pupils are wide in arousal and her lips curving on a smile as she takes the hint and takes him in hand and he blows out a slow breath of appreciative pleasure as she gently starts stroking him, softer touches than he expected but all cupped in the heat of her hand.

_Aye aye_ , woman's got _fantastic_ fucking hands.

Dreams don't do her justice, really. Because she does this especially wonderful thing with her thumb and the tip of his cock that just -

“Making sure you're still here,” she whispers self consciously, turning her thumb again to distract from how easily he can pick her emotions out of her voice (cuz he _has_ learned somethin' from her in a decade, hasn't he?). "Making sure..."

Right... right, they'd been in the middle of a conversation.

He was supposed to be making her feel better, not just getting his rocks off – but who says he can't multi-task?

(Gillian. _Gillian_ says that. To his face, and honestly. And often.)

“That you're awake?” he asks, fingering her hair as she presses her head back against his shirt and rubs tighter into him. She's managed to distract enough just by rubbing precum up the length of his erection and he lets her because – well, he's still Cal Lightman and she's still his Foster and if the two of them together can't solve simple problems and awkward equations in their sleep (or during sex) then it's time to reconsider the extent of their partnership.

Her hand tightens its stroking, applies more heated pressure as she presses her ear harder into his chest, a noise thrumming up her throat. “Mmm hmm.”

“Oh, you're awake, Gill.” Distraction – she's a bright dazzling star of distraction, isn't she? Jesus fuck, she can emotionally evade him with just a teasing turn of her palm and kisses and a lowered valve and hum to her tone. However, she's not gettin' out of this one entirely. Even if it's by way of kissing and touching, he'll make sure she's dealt with it before they're done. “Promise.”

Funny to him that this time, he's the one forcing her to face something rather than ignore the problem by way of sex. Funny as realizing she dreams of him probably near as often as he dreams of her. He's ruefully smirking at that realization as she shifts them both, taking control as she shoves him farther back on his shoulders and stretches out over him. The loss of her hand between his legs has him groaning but Cal keeps the smile, lets it wend more affectionate as his palms catch on her hips and fiddle with her knickers. His eyes go following the shadow of her form as she straddles over him and he's stunned back silent into the sudden full lap of Foster. A chuckle comes off him as she braces both palms against his shoulders and she leans forward, kissing him silly as one of her hands fidgets on his boxers again. Insistent little thing, and persistent, and still so unarguably gorgeous. Especially when she kisses him like she can survive months on a bit of water and just his kissing.

A grunt of petulant annoyance puffs against his lips as she draws her head back, “Help me?”

She's still tugging at fabric as he laughs through an exhalation and lifts innocent hands. “Help you what? Undress me?”

“Mmm hmm,” she nods as she fidgets the hem of his shirt up higher and playfully draws a fingertip heart on his stomach.

Which is, surprisingly, sweet as hell... until he obviously doesn't get the hint and she pinches at his happy trail and tugs, forcing a squeaked noise off his lips. “Oi! That hurts.”

Gillian just keeps pinching at him, a smile threatening to claim the supposedly earnest look she's giving him. “Then help me.”

“For what purpose? Eh?” he taunts at her even as he lifts his hips, letting her jerk at his bottoms and laughing once again as she wriggles around on him enough to get his lower half entirely naked.

“Wake me up, Cal,” she pouts at him purposefully and it works delightfully for her as she jerks the fabric of his shirt. Because it instantly thrums his heartbeat faster – but not out of anything sexual, most definitely more because he can't bloody stand that sad little brokenness in her voice. “Bad dream.”

He sits up into her fervor, lets her curl up the bottom hem of his shirt even as he forces her back into sitting more evenly in his lap. The dark of her eyes and sad pouting of her lips, the thinness of her voice, brittle as some glass, all of it magnetically draws him up and closer to her. He relents and lifts his arms into how frantic her hands seem in jerking it up and off him. Then he loses track of the fabric completely as she bends her head into kissing him, the trace of her hair against his face as she leans over him and discards the sweated fabric.

She's all ardent hands and heat, but molten and not sweated like he is. He can't help feel unattractively swampy under her when he litters his fingers down her warm back, presses the tips of them into her spine and feels how knotted it is even as she kisses him toward admittedly swoony. His hands both soothe flat down her lower back before rising up under the fabric of her tank, skimming it up by his thumbs and palms as she whimpers into his mouth and kisses harder, rougher. Her kissing is teeth baring and striking sharp against his tongue and lips and just as seething hot as she is. She's desperate even while playful, which... still surprises the bloody hell out of him, even as he forces her clothing from her with rough hands and a definite growling. Even as their mouths break apart in the motions and come back together again she seems... needy. 

They've played rough and fast before – s'nothin' like this, though.

It's passionate when it's the both of them. It's terrifically addictive and dazing - how naturally primal and just _sexual_ they sometimes are with each other. Hell, first time she'd thrown him back onto his kitchen island he'd near messed his pants before she'd gotten him unbuckled. If he were more a romantic (which, he is, just can't seem to broadcast it) he'd admit that she feels more like another half than Zoe had, and especially towards the end of things. He would admit that somehow she can read his needs, his likes and dislikes with a terrific accuracy and speed – one that surprises him, has him craving more and more and more often. He'd admit that being inside her fits and feels like an unbroken fault line. Two parts, fit tethered together and matching edges even when separated. But this is... this seems terrified, her nails digging hard into the skin of his shoulders as she denies the way he's trying to slow her kisses and take a gasping breath at once.

“Oi, you,” his voice slaps sharp between them as he clasps her jaw up, thumb on one side and fingers spread up her cheek on the other, force in his hand, “listenin'?”

He specifically makes sure her eyes, dark and feral wild as they are, he makes sure they focus on him.

Even if it does take a self conscious moment of sweet blue blinking for her to match his glance.

“Not goin' anywhere, darlin,” he tells her defiantly, flashing that (in)famous rebellious streak up between them and getting a legitimately pleased look of comforted assurance in response. Sure, maybe she doesn't entirely believe him – but she wants to. She _wants_ to believe that he'll be with her forever, she _wants_ to believe in his best intentions and the fact that he really does care, maybe even actually really loves her. She wants. He needs. Somehow the both of them know.

The familiar adoration that's in her slow and still sleepy smile as her head dips lower and her cheek rubs against his thumb, somehow it's enough to say that for her, for his Gillian... the _wanting_ is more than enough right now. Because he's making sure that he's being sincere, and he's making damn sure that she can see it in his face, hear it in his voice. He's forcing her to face it, really. And he's near blissful in the realization that the smile she's wearing is something she cannot mask, it's an action she can't stop or hide from him.

“Can't leave.” Cal tugs her mouth down toward his, fingers tight on her skin as he lowers the timbre of his voice to a grated hush that he knows weakens her. “I still have so much of you to explore, eh?”

Another sweet blush and he can feel it under his fingers rather than see it, one that tells him she's coming back round to being more his darling than she has been since she's woken up. Her lips go reflexively twitching on a cherished smile as he touches against them. The bare light in the room is dim, bouncing out from the adjoining bathroom but enough that he can see her eyes, her smile. He jerks his head up slightly to encourage her, though, and she doesn't need anymore excuse or reasoning to brand her kissing onto his.

“You've seen it all, Cal. More than seen it,” Gill reminds him slowly, her head drawn back by the way he's tangled his fingers up into her hair and tugged without her realizing the movement.

“Y'mean the touching and the kissing?”

“I do,” she laughs into agreement, head tipping as his teeth catch her ear.

Sure, yeah. She's got a fair point to make but it means nothin' to him. Because it doesn't quite matter how often he's seen or touched or stroked any part of her – he's more than delighted to do so again. And over again. He's sure that in some ways, on some days, they're going to be fed up with parts of each other.

But this... he's not sure he'll ever come round to getting over being able to touch her _like this_.

“This bit,” he mumbles as he busies his mouth over her breasts, down between them and then his tongue is following learned curves. “Deserves another pass, I'd say.”

He feels her cradle his head against her chest in answer, can just imagine her watching him as he adores one of her nipples, ribbing his fingers up and down each side of her ribs in a way that has her spine arching her breasts nearer. Points to him for managing that move because she seems surprised and delighted by it at once, her nails scraping light comfort into his scalp as she moans and presses forward into his mouth on an arch.

“It felt real,” she whispers, that same hand shifting so that she can trace across his forehead. “Too real.”

“No more of that.” Cal kisses quick against flushed skin and lifts his head into her fingers, squinting in the near darkness as he forces his tone rougher, more direct. “Huh? Was just a dream. M'not goin' away, Gill.”

A saddened sound breaks off her. “Usually I like dreaming about you.”

And he likes that she likes it so much as she does. Bloody hell, yeah, he does.

So he can't help but desperately reach for something, anything, that'll make her feel better.

“Wanna hear somethin' loony? 'Bout dreams?” He can't believe, even as his mouth tumbles out unchecked words, that this is the only response his usually creative and expansive brain can come up with. “Still remember the first time I dreamed you.”

He's an idiot, actually. A fully grown, albeit on the short side, man-sized moron.

“Yeah?”

Promised himself once that he'd never tell her about that dream, hadn't he?

Same as he'd promised to the universe at large that he'd keep his hands off her, yeah?

But then, here they are – he's makin' promises that seem complete contradictions to his previous intentions – starting with swearing that he's not going anywhere without her close.

“Oh, _yeah_ ,” he agrees into her questioning, lets his voice fill sensually as he nuzzles on her collarbone and sucks against her skin.

She ducks away quick enough to keep him from marking up her throat but her lips take his up to soften the denial and he can feel her smile as she ends the kiss. “That good, huh?”

“Just like this,” Cal admits, not even himself understanding what he's so proud about as he says it, why his voice is so smug as he shrugs. “Almost.”

Seems like she's considering the question before she asks it, her head tips and she slicks her tongue against her lips before she just nods. “What else?”

“Oh, really?” he asks, hearing his pitch rise in a sort of teasing giddiness. “Wanna hear the rude bits, do ya?”

“Uh huh.” She sounds like she's embarrassed or unsure of the request but nods slow agreement when he groans happily into her skin. “Tell me?”

Apparently his reaction was more than enough to spur on her confidence, though. She slides a hand back between them in response, angling her head up and to the side as he whispers his lips back up her throat in encouragement. “Well, woke up before it got to the really good - ”

“ _Cal._ ” It's direct and tight, both her tone and her hand as she squeezes her fingers around him, her hips shifting into him as she tries levering weight onto her knees. His hands cup under her, squeezing against the backs of her thighs, roving over her ass as he watches annoyance flicker over her features. She knows he's delaying, that he's teasing her with an intentionally thickened accent and husky whispering along her throat. “ _Tell_ me.”

She's teasing the tip of his length against her clit in tight little circuits and he's stunned silent for a moment, mouth gaped open as he watches her head fall back in gratification. Not necessarily what she'd wanted, but she's enjoying herself in the meantime. She's momentarily blinding to him, like the full bright sun after days in darkness. God, he loves her and her unapologetic confidence – her knowledge of herself and him at once. A lunatic love, unbearable itself. Crushed and caved his chest from inside out some days.

“You'll kill me yet, love,” he wonders up near her jaw before turning his head, watching her lashes flutter as she makes a delicious sound and presses it trapped between pursed lips. Her fingers are careful but insistent as she rubs him harder against her clit, her hips finding a slow but sensual rhythm to match as he presses one palm up her lower back to support her.

“ _Cal_ ,” she demands at him again and he snaps back into a sort of attention, almost. His brain's gone fuzzy but he's still coherent enough to know that this is coming up on a whole new level of both intimate and sexy.

Things He Never Imagined Happening in Real Life: add Gillian using his bits to bring herself off to the list.

“Was still married,” he murmurs, the hand that isn't braced up her back finds its way up her stomach to stroke one of her breasts, fingers tweaking at one of her nipples and adding pressure when she keens a long moan over his hair, “hadn't seen you in months, though. Missed you.”

She whimpers another breath over him and his vision blurs a little, the sensations she's giving him draw every measure of heat and blood and oxygen out of his brain and south instead. Still, he watches her, agape at how deliciously sure she is of herself now as she teases him nearly inside herself and then just gives him a firm squeeze – enough to urge him back to talking but not hard enough to really hurt. He skids his palms down on her, finds her thighs and enjoys stroking how tightly close they're wrapped against his waist.

“Missed those buttoned up shirts and tight fancy skirts.” He squeezes roughly at her thighs in answer, tugs her closer by his palms against warm skin before grasping her up close. “These legs. Fucking hell, your _hips_ , darling.”

A groan lathes off his lungs just before trickling into a heated chuckle, his eyes brightening through all their colors as he grins at the blush that tints her cheeks. “Missed hearin' your voice, tellin' me not to be such a plonker. That voice of excruciatin', mind-numbin' _reason_.”

“You never told me...” She kisses him roughly after a moment, in a way he doesn't expect. It's her tongue stroking his with love more than lust, and her head tipping over his as she moans happiness. “You'd missed me?”

“Could smell you, taste you – was so real.”

She's kissing him again with encouragement, stealing the oxygen from deep in the base of his lungs as her hands come back up and her arms encircle his shoulders. Can't help adoring her when she wraps him up, can't help loving this place she puts him in when she makes it okay for him to be so delightfully mad for her.

“Woke up knowin' I'd just been inside you, kissin' everythin' I could reach, hands in your hair.” He illustrates the point, a hand fingering back into soft tresses while she mimics the movement and wipes his hair back, pressed his head back with force as she watches his features. “Moanin' in my lap. In the dream, I mean.”

“When?” Gill asks gently, even as her hand re-enforces the question by pressing harder. “Tell me?”

“Years ago. Night before I called you about the firm. Before I asked you to be my partner.” And he can't help burying his face back between her neck and shoulder as she loosens the hold, humming his appreciation of that curve before he rubs kisses on her skin and growls against the side of her neck. “Your hair was long and dark then, remember?”

She looks won over and impressed and flushes up even more as she smiles in memory, her head drawing back to force him to meet her glance again. “I remember.”

“You were s'posed to make sure that particular dream never came true, Gill,” he accuses softly, not really accusing her of anything as she reaches between them again and gives him another firm stroke of her hand, kissing his cheek lightly, lovingly. “S'why I chose you. Practical, responsible, _innocent_ Doctor Foster. My good girl.”

“That's a lie, Cal,” she whispers on his ear, hot damp breath and then her tongue is doing something wicked to his earlobe as she slowly slides down onto him, takes him deep inside her and angles forward for more. She's excruciating like this, and limitless as she nibbles down his neck and licks words on his skin. “That's not why.”

She's right - and that was utter shit for denial, especially for such an important lie, most especially when coming from a supposed fucking lie detection expert.

Choosing her had never actually been about assuring that this _wouldn't_ happen.

“You're right, love. Tha's a lie.” It had, instead, always only been about finding his way as close to her as any given situation would possibly allow. Whether it was as her business partner, best friend, or pulling her farther down in his lap and making her moan as he thrust up deeper into her.

Even if it was falling in love with her, over and over again, through every disastrous (or even mundane) event in their lives.

“It is,” she agrees, whimpering a whole new sound against his jaw, this one begging for more.

“True.” He smiles honestly, closes his eyes into the memory of a dream that's come alive as he feels her tighten on him, “That's not _at all_ why.”


End file.
